


could be a nail in my coffin and I don't need another one

by miss_sofia



Category: Fashion Model RPF, Music RPF, The Kills
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9267479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_sofia/pseuds/miss_sofia
Summary: jamie has kate, alison feels alone, angst ensues.





	

The first thing she notices after unlocking the door is that she's never stayed in a room so big. There's one bed in the middle, two suitcases by her side, and so much free space. She's honestly puzzled by it for a moment, until she hears Kate's giggles and Jamie's huffed laughter as they open the door to their room.  
  
Oh, yeah, that explains everything.  
  
She plops down on the bed, stares at the ceiling, contains the sudden tears welling up from her eyes. After what feels like an hour, Alison stands up and catches a glimpse of the alarm clock on the bedside table: it's only been fifteen minutes.  
  
It shouldn't be so hard, being alone. She's done it for most of her life, she's used to it. She's been at home alone for years, and even if the problem was just missing Jamie, he's been with Kate long enough for her to be used to that as well. It's more specific, it's about hotel rooms and going to sleep after concerts and hogging the hot water in the shower and throwing their stuff around with such lack of finesse that by the end of the tour Alison's bag is filled with Jamie's clothes and Jamie's with Alison's.  
  
She goes down to the lobby just to have something to do, hangs around the front door and brings a cigarette to her lips before realizing she left her lighter on her bag back in the room. She sighs, blowing a few strands of hair out of her face.  
  
“Do you need a light?”  
  
The guy handing her a lighter seems a few years younger than her, tall and skinny and still showing some leftover teenage awkwardness. She nods and leans into his flame, taking the first drag off her cigarette.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
He looks like a fan, and it bothers her for a spare second. Fans – as much as she's grateful for them – make her anxious, yet it crosses her mind that she wouldn't mind him being there just for them if it meant having some company.  
  
They end up back at her room, and they drink and they fuck and the sex is not that special but he obeys her every whim with such enthusiasm that it seems worth it. She kicks him out after they're done and, instead of complaining, he thanks her.  
  
When Jamie knocks to ask her to hurry up because they're late for soundcheck, Alison opens the door with her hair still messed up and her skin glistening with sweat. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.  
  
She feels guilty and weird for a few days, avoiding Jamie and Kate, avoiding every fan and photographer, avoiding everything but her hotel rooms. She swears to herself she won't fuck a fan again, because the way she feels around Jamie must be bleeding through in her performances and she's not ready to sacrifice the thrill of the stage for some petty need of validation.  
  
She keeps her promise for two weeks and three days.  
  
They're back from a gig, definitely their best since the tour started, and the rush she feels when performing is giving way to the terrible drop that comes with it. The elevator is too small for her, Jamie and Kate, and she presses her back against the mirror, staring at the back of Jamie's neck, where Kate's running her long manicured fingers, until they reach their floor. Alison wants to reach out and touch Jamie, hold his hand, feel his eyes on her, anything to reassure her, but she doesn't dare. All she gets instead is a quick good night and a door slammed on her face.  
  
She doesn't even enter her room, just turns on her heels, foregoes the elevator altogether and runs down the five flights of stairs, stops by the hotel bar. The only people there are a couple of middle-aged tourists, probably up due to jetlag, a group of loud teenage girls who would shriek at the top of their lungs if they caught a glimpse of Kate, and a shaggy-haired guy sporting the wristband that gave access to the venue. She goes straight for him, downs his drink and grimaces at the taste of cheap tequila, puts a hand on his shoulder and looks into his eyes.  
  
Two hours later she's kicking him out of her room, lighting a cigarette, and promising to leave his name at the door the next time they're in town. Truth be told, she's not even sure of his name anymore.  
  
She's lulled to sleep by Kate's stifled moans coming through the thin wall.  
  
It quickly becomes a habit. Alison doesn't do it every day, or even every week, only when she needs a pick me up, or when Jamie and Kate are ignoring her completely in order to run back to their room and fuck each other's brains out. She picks guys who are cute and willing, who look at her with adoration, who are extremely thankful to be in her room, who bend over backwards to please her and giver her what she wants. They don't necessarily succeed, and it's never fulfilling the way she hopes it will be, but it gives her proximity and a warm body in her room when she needs one.  
  
After the first five or six, Jamie starts to notice. He knocks on her door with caution, he lets out offhanded comments about her “having company”, and at one point he even says to Kate — with thinly veiled disdain — that he his “happy Alison is seeing people”. Kate, in her turn, reacts as if it's the cutest thing that Alison is “finally grown up”, a hint of relief thrown in the playful — albeit a tiny bit mean — comment.  
  
On stage, Jamie's reactions to her have gotten weird, there's a certain insistence in the avoidance of her eyes, a sincere lack of interest in her silent pleads. Tonight, when she gets down on his knees and nudges his guitar with her head, she pushes right up into his space, throws him off balance, messes up the song just for him to notice her. He looks at her then, anger and disappointment in his eyes, and she sees what's putting him off: he doesn't feel he has the _right_ to act around her the way he did anymore, he's nearly scared of crossing the line.  
  
She startles, misses a beat in the beginning of the chorus, ponders whether she should push more and force him into pushing back, or whether she should just back off and deal with it later. She picks the latter, takes a step back and hopes the audience attributes her dazed look and glistening eyes to the intensity of the performance.  
  
Back at the hotel, Alison takes an elevator and closes the door before Jamie has the chance to get in, runs to her room, slams the door after her like an angry teenager. There are tears falling down her cheeks by the time she falls face-first into her bed, hugs the pillow, and starts sobbing.  
  
There's a knock, but she barely registers it. Another knock, and a voice with it. Jamie calling her name, voice tired and frustrated. He calls her again, knocks a few more times, harder, with more intent, voice growing louder and huffed. She gives in, gets up, runs to the door and opens it.  He's exactly how she pictured him, head leaning against the wall, shuffling his feet on the cheap carpet. Her face is swollen and red and wet, her hair plastered to her forehead, her t-shirt ripped and sweaty and rumpled, and she feels so vulnerable that she's surprised by the cold control in her own voice.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
Jamie takes a step forward, grips her shoulders, pushes her against the wall, and holds her. Kisses the top of her head, buries his face on her hair. He mumbles something that she thinks is “I love you”, and she sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted in 2012 @lj.


End file.
